Wrong Time
by In Paradisum
Summary: Seifer&Hope - Wrong place. Drabble, VIII/XIII crossover set in KH. M for language and character death.


A/N: Please don't kill me. For Mintwafflez and her amazing hatred of Hope.

I've only made it to Disc 2 of VIII, so if Seifer's way out of character... I'm sorry.

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_**Wrong Time**_

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Traverse Town was a welcoming place.

At least, as welcoming as a place could be as a secluded, individual island amidst the darkness encroaching.

The town - aptly named for its constantly arriving residents, surviving the destruction of their home world and thus swept along with the darkness - was three districts large, included a hotel and several stores, and was entirely too small to accommodate the large egos of Seifer Almasy and Squall Leonhart within its limits.

_Stupid fucking puberty boy. _It wasn't like the ex-knight to sulk – or maybe it was – but he did it anyway, and he did it with a fervor that rivaled the passion with which he had served Edea Kramer, the Sorceress. Recklessly storming through the Heartless-infested Third District, he dispatched any stalking Shadows that dared make themselves known to him with a one-handed swipe of the Hyperion. _Fucking puberty boy and his wuss lackeys. Where is Chicken-wuss when you need a goddamn punching bag? Oh, right, the fucking DARKNESS got him. Hyne, why can't we just have a fucking Sorceress for an enemy like usual? Damn!_

Sneering at the abandoned house on the edge of the Third District, Seifer threw a Firaga at the structure and listened to the timber start on fire. The smell of smoke was sure to bring the ragtag group of pretty boys and useless girls running, and what the not-SeeD really wanted to do right now was plunge Hyperion into one of their sorry chests. Maybe it was coping issues – his world had been swallowed by the darkness – or maybe it was Squall being so damn _near._

The blonde spun on one heel, feeling his coat flap out behind him with satisfaction, and stomped away.

"Nnn_nnnnn_—" The silver-haired boy slipped into a fit of coughs, the reek of burning wood filling his nostrils upon awakening. Trying to open his eyes, he slammed them shut again as the acrid smoke stung his eyes.

The last thing he remembered was...

...Orphan...

They'd just beaten the fal'Cie, or the shell, as it was – while they let up for the slightest, it seized the opportunity to sweep a wave of paralyzing magic over them, knocking out Vanille and Sazh and leaving the others in a state of pain so intense they couldn't move...

It had looked at _him, _eyes – two sets and one spare – filled with hatred, seething anger...

_Excruciating _pain...

This wasn't Pulse, and this wasn't Cocoon.

_Where am I?_

_What have I done to my world?_

_And why am I not... a crystal?_

The crackle of burning timber made itself known, again, as the burning...whateveritwas settled after a part of it crumbled to ash. At almost exactly the same time, Hope realized the corner of the box he was apparently leaning on digging into his back just to the left of his spine.

Shifting, he cried out weakly as his right wrist gave a painful twinge after having weight set on it. _Left-handed? Great._

This was getting better and better.

The rustle of flames became louder – apparently it was spreading. Using his left hand to climb to his feet, the Estheim boy checked his brand.

Scarred and scorched, like Fang's. So he _hadn't _really completed his Focus...?

That aside, as it wasn't really important at the moment – he did technically have no time limit to figure this out, now – he tested out walking to see if he would immediately fall over. Nothing but a bit of lightheadedness, but getting out of the smoke would help with that.

Or he could just put out the fire, he figured. He was still a l'Cie – that meant he still had magic. A few well-placed Watergas would put out the blaze in no time.

He hadn't seen that boy before. Evidently he wasn't part of Squall's fanclub, unless it was really multiplying that quickly.

Nevertheless, the kid was putting out his signal fire. Seifer noted this with disdain, approaching the torched building with his face contorted in a sneer.

"Hey. Kid. That's my signal fire you're putting out there, fucker."

The silverette looked up at him, noted his expression and quickly refocused on the fire, edging a foot to the left to be safe. "That's a house, not a pile of wood."

"So, wuss? It's abandoned."

"Fires spread." Hope cast another Waterga, channeling the magic from his brand to his left hand as he mimed throwing the spell at the base of the blaze. Another column of water erupted from the ground, dampening the inferno in a circle about fifteen meters in diameter.

Seifer had had enough with the kid trying to fucking _ruin _his little project. "Listen here, little bastard," he spoke slowly and deliberately, suddenly holding the sharp point of Hyperion to his unprotected throat. The boy froze, feeling cold metal press against his skin, razorblade-precise. "Just leave. Go someplace else and amuse them with your goody-fucking-two-shoes act. Got me?"

"But-"

"There's a fucking gunblade at your throat. No room for compromises. Just walk away – hell, go run to Puberty Boy. He'd enjoy the company."

"I-"

"What was that?" Seifer leaned closer, saccharine voice washing over Hope's ear. The statuesque boy couldn't suppress a shiver running down his spine.

He didn't answer.

The blonde took the blade from his throat. "Well, go on then, little bitch."

Hope swallowed, threw one last lingering look at the blazing house, and turned to walk away.

Seifer stabbed forward, skewering the boy through his back and his stomach – Hope didn't even have time to flinch as he took steel through the center, abdomen exploding into white-hot pain as he fought not to curl up – it would only hurt worse than it did, as where it was right now, the gunblade was staunching a massive flow of blood from the wound.

The same liquid escaped the corner of his mouth, snaking down to the point of his chin as he coughed and spit out the crimson.

"Not fast enough," Seifer crooned, ruffling Hope's silver hair as he tried to breathe.

Hearing the whistle of a shuriken three feet from his left ear, the tall blonde leaned to the right as a humongous throwing star whizzed past, careening back to land in its owner's hand.

"Almasy, step away from the kid!"

He smirked at Squall – Leon now, apparently, judging by the rage-fit the brunette had thrown when called by his birth name – as he did as he was asked, releasing the handle of Hyperion as he moved away from Hope, who had fallen back onto his shoulder. The brunette girl with the pink dress and bow – _disgusting _– rushed forward to catch him as he fell, careful not to jostle the weapon lodged in his midsection.

Almasy had his hands in the air, staring into Squall's stormy gray eyes as they narrowed at him menacingly. Trusting the girl to take care of the kid, he pointed Lionheart at Seifer, the space between them allowing for that and little else.

"What are you going to do about it, _puberty boy?_"

... Squall shook his head at his rival, _pity _gracing his features as he looked on with contempt. "You're not worth the fight, Almasy."

And he walked away, because he knew it would piss Seifer off to the point of no return – if running a fourteen-year-old kid through with a gunblade hadn't reached that point yet.

"Leonhart! Bastard, fucktard, get back here, chicken-wuss!" Leaving Hyperion (he'd forgotten about it), he ran after Squall, who had already disappeared into the First District.

The silverette struggled to breathe, fighting to avoid moving as even a miniscule shift made him cry out in pain. Aerith held his head in her lap, trying to figure out how to clear the wound and heal it in a short enough span of time that he wouldn't die.

"I-"

"Shh," the brunette murmured, gesturing for Yuffie to follow Leon, as he probably needed help dealing with the man who would do such a thing to a _child. _"Don't talk. You'll make the injury worse."

The look in his eyes, half-mast sea green misted with pain, told her that he wasn't stupid enough to believe that he was going to make it. "If- if you see anybody..." he coughed, a look of pain distorting his ghostly face, "... with the mark on my... left wrist..."

Aerith reached to pull the wristband away, observe the mark, and commit it to memory while desperately avoiding looking at the gaping wound in his stomach.

".. tell them.. I'm sorry.."

"I will." The sorrowful brunette brushed his hair back from his forehead, musing on how anticlimactic of a way this was to die. Impaled by someone you didn't even know, just after surviving your own world being destroyed.

Hope sighed, the release of breath slowly turning into the death rattle as he stiffened at last, and a solitary tear made its way down Aerith's cheek.

-fin-


End file.
